


from another desk

by ratthirst



Category: Within the Wires (Podcast)
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratthirst/pseuds/ratthirst
Summary: After accidentally happening upon Mr. Witten's dictations, another secretary begins to have a different perspective on the bureaucrat





	from another desk

The first time I heard his voice, it was an accident. I had been rummaging around the office looking for some new tapes. Tom, I mean, Mr. Johnson—I should be careful to not be so familiar—was running low, and I knew Amy probably had some spares in her desk. She and I shared everything: spare office supplies, gossip about Mary whom neither of us liked very much, lunch on days we remembered to eat, cigarettes on days we didn’t. She was gone for the day, but I knew she wouldn’t mind if I checked her drawers and took what I needed.

And maybe I’m wrong to say it was the first time I heard his voice. Mr. Witten had spoken to me before, just never more than five words at a time and seldom getting my name right. A quick “good morning” or “have a nice night Rebecca/Regina/Rachel/Ruth” as he rushed in and out of the office. Always distant, never any interest in conversation beyond the socially expected pleasantries of hello and goodbye. I used to wonder how Amy seemed so unbothered to be under the employ of a man I thought so bland and cold, but we never much talked about it.

Rummaging through her desk, I had found a few tapes. I took one and put it in my player to make sure it was rewound and ready for whatever inane dictation Mr. Johnson had for me. He was always rattling on about nonsense. Who knows how his brain strings thoughts together. Once, nestled between a letter to the commissioner and a request that I reschedule a follow-up appointment he never asked me to make in the first place with a doctor he had surely never seen before, he asked me to order flowers for Mrs. Johnson for Mother’s Day in September. September! Now you’d better believe I ordered her those flowers because that woman deserves any attention she can get with a man like that for a husband. Plus it’s part of the job, listening to these men, handling any and every matter their brains can muster.

When I pushed play to check everything was in order, I was surprised to hear Mr. Witten’s voice come over the tape. It was hard to believe Amy would hold on to months-old dictations. Now usually I would’ve stopped and erased it, having no interest in hearing whatever boring rambling Mr. Witten had for Amy, but there was something about his voice that felt familiar so I kept listening. I had never picked up on this feeling before in our 5 word exchanges. But hearing him speak in full sentences, listening to the way his requests rolled off his tongue, certain and commanding, sure, but also funny. He, unlike Mr. Johnson, seemed to remember there was a human on the other end of his dictations. It was thrilling eavesdropping on his requests of Amy. He spoke freely, personally, even telling a joke that made me audibly giggle—thank god the office was empty. I would never have guessed he had a personality. 

I stayed in the office late that night, listening to both sides of the tape. I found myself wondering what he may have been wearing on June 12, whether he was likely wearing his blue suit with small stripes or the grey one. I realized I preferred him in the blue one. That I even held an opinion on the matter surprised me, but it didn’t stop my daydream about his sartorial choices. Is it still called a daydream if it’s 9pm and you’re staring at the pale tan walls of an office instead of out a window on a bright sunny afternoon? Nonetheless, I remember thinking about how cruel it is that men, no, that Mr. Witten must wear a full suit in the heat of summer. Sure, the stockings we pull over our thighs for the sake of decency are not much better. Though who is to really know. I imagined myself in Mr. Witten’s suit, wondering how warm it would feel on a summer day, and then wondering if it would fit over my hips, and then thinking about if I were in Mr. Witten’s suit, what would he be left wearing?

That night ended with me pressed up against my desk, pressing play-pause-rewind over my favorite bit of Mr. Witten’s dictation with one hand while my other hand was busy between my thighs. Something about the way Mr. Witten let the words “it’s disgusting, but I love it” come out of his mouth, the way he wondered about what he wanted and if he could have it made me want to be the thing he wanted. I thought about him wanting me, about him finally getting my name right, about him crooning it into my neck as he made my hips buck. Eventually, I came into my hand, wiped it on my stockings, and realized it was long past time to get home. 

It was so hard to erase that first tape, letting Mr. Witten’s voice disappear into the ether. The only way I coaxed my sticky fingers over those buttons was with a promise to myself that this would not be the last time I stole away to hear this man’s voice. 

The next morning I told Amy I borrowed a spare tape for Mr. Johnson. She seemed unphased and asked if I wanted anything from the coffee cart. When Mr. Witten came into the office, I clung to every second of his “Good morning Rebecca,” and wished for the day he got my name right.


End file.
